Bashing Shit
by IntraSule
Summary: Sometimes vandalism is the best stress reliever. (Adult Sealand)


Couple of things: The whiner with the weird (yet oddly funny) superiority complex got two of my stories deleted, Garden of Love and All Imperfect, because they don't know how to work FF dot net themselves apparently and post any writings of their own (or maybe they don't know how to write at all, if the grammar, spelling, and the overused "I HATE FINSU WAHHHA!" idea in their comments are anything to go by) soooo...

I backed up my FinSu smut files and posted it on other writing sites, including AO3, and links will be on my profile! I'm not going to stop posting FinSu on here, but I'll post the softer stuff on here and post links to the hardcore version (if I find enough time and patience to rewrite a smuttier version) in the bottom of the story and on my profile! I also post stuff on my writing blog and the links will be there, too! In fact, my cool friend Matt gave me an Omegaverse FinSu idea that I'm working on right now. I might even make a Fictionpress account to post my explicit stuff on there and provide a link to my account and to the stories (and of course, because the anon loves my FinSu erotica so much that they're trolling knowing fully well that it's only going to make me write more of it in-between my other stories, I'll have loads of FinSu in my archives).

So, that's my author's note for anyone who follows me here and/or knows about the silliness going on between FinSu writers and this one weird-ass attention-seeking anonymous hater, now please enjoy this short story I've written for my RP blog months ago but thought about posting on here just now, while I go on my merry little way to make the omegaverse FinSu I promised my buddy. Again, check out my profile for the links to my smut!

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><p>There's a factory near the bay of Stockholm, Sweden, one whose production died decades ago when the demand for war rafts ceased. This empty factory, with its aged, mossy exterior, yellow cracked windows, and occasional metallic creak that no one knows who causes, riles up enough fear to create urban myths which, in turn, causes people to avoid it at all costs.<p>

It was the perfect place for tonight, made even more brilliant by the full, white moon floating above it like a good sign. Using the moonlight and the industrial flashlights in their hands, five young men approached the front of the building. They looked around for any witnesses and, deciding that the coast was clear, set to work opening up one of the door. One took out a standard household hammer and beat away at the rusted chain and padlock keeping the dock doors held down until the links and lock broke apart. He then gripped the handle and pushed the doors up.

They all moved inside the factory and looked around inside the spacious area, lights beaming on the dusty machinery and materials used for the rafts. The entire place was empty save for the spiders and mice, but it shouldn't be empty. Not tonight, anyway.

"Hey, what time is it?" The young man with the hammer in his hand asked.

Another checked his watch. "2:32. Around the time we said we'd meet."

The man with the hammer scoffed and shook his head. "I hope he's not going to be late this time."

"Awww, it sounds like you guys miss me."

The five trespassers jumped and spun around, flashing their lights to look for the voice.

"Eh, yoo-hoo. Over here, dears."

They followed the voice up to a conveyor belt not too high up from them. One of them grinned wryly at the fourth member sitting atop. "Hey, you're actually here on time for once in your damn life, Kirkland."

"Awww, it sounds like you guys miss me a lot," Peter Kirkland cooed as he lounged on the conveyor belt, propped up on his elbow and his other arm hanging in the air, a bottle of Carnegie Porter dangling in his hand. He shifted his body to sit on his bottom before he jumped off and landed into a crouching position on the hard concrete floor. He got up and tugged up his tight black jeans one-handed and went to hoist a cooler off the crate that was under the conveyor belt. He held it out to the others."Hope you guys weren't weeping too much at my absence."

"Like anyone's going to miss being around a little shit like you," the man sneered. He took the cooler and passed it back to the other two. "Did anything yet besides chugged some beer."

Peter shook his head. "No, decided to wait for you guys this time."

"How considerate of you."

"And you guys say I'm not nice."

The man dumped his duffel bag off his shoulder to the floor and knelt besides it. He unzipped the bag and pulled out the long taped handle of one of the aluminum bats inside. He handed it to Peter, who took it and pulled it out. He swung it around carefully so it rested on his shoulder and not hit the kneeling man and waited for the others to prepare. When everyone had their first bottles of beer and their bats at the ready, Peter flashed them all a smile and gave them a quick nod.

Peter tipped his bottle into his mouth, gulped down a couple sips of the beer, and tossed the bottle in the air. When it came down, Peter swung his bat at it, glass and whatever was left of the beer smashing in the air and splattering across the floor. The shattering noise echoed weakly in the factory, but it still served as a well-enough signal for everyone to start smashing whatever shit they can. They ran off in different directions, swinging their bats in one hand and slamming them against the old steel material of unfinished rafts and the wooden crates. Peter sauntered casually after the other vandals, hitting his bat against the trail of smaller crates until he started to absolutely feel the energy rising inside him.

He jogged to a nearby stack of boxes and kicked the middle one down. "Whoooo!" He hollered as the tower of boxes toppled and the giant screws inside spilled. He picked one up and tossed it up like he did with his bottle and hit it with the bat. The screw flew off into one of the windows and cracked it, but not enough to actually break it. He took up another screw from the spilled piled and hit it again, aiming for the window this time. It hit the point where the window started to crack in a spiderweb and the entire thing shattered.

As the glass rained down, Peter took a moment to observe the scene around him. A couple of the vandals were really getting into the overturned rafts lined up like a display waiting to be destroyed. They hit their bats against the rafts again and again, making sure there were heavy dents in the current ones before moving on to the others. One vandal took to smashing the wooden crates. Splinters and dust flew everywhere as he smashed his bat against the corners of the gigantic crates, and the bat itself glinted with moonlight with every movement.

One of the vandals who saw Peter pitch a screw to himself copied his moves, continually hitting the screws and bolts towards the windows and smiling as the sound of breaking glass tinkled in his ears. "Ya see that, Kirkland? That's 10 years worth the baseball there!"

"You swing like a fucking eight-year-old, though!" Peter shouted back. His head swung around for the next thing to destroy. He spotted in the far end of the factory shelves for what he can guess tools. "Watch this."

He sprinted to the shelves and skidded to a stop in front of them. He went to the one standing near the middle and planted the sole of his boot as high up on the metal rack as he can. With an effortless push on his part, Peter used his foot to knock down the shelf. It toppled over, and as it fell, it pushed against the shelf next to it, and that one fell against the one next to it. It was a loud, banging domino effect that Peter always wanted to do, with the boxes of tools and material clanging loudly onto the floor. Among the noise, Peter can hear rooting from the others at the marvelous feat.

"Alright, alright, I admit that was so fucking cool!" The man Peter was previously talking to said excitedly, walking over to toss Peter another beer.

Peter caught it and thumbed off the cap with his thumb, holding the bottle high and pouring it like a fountain in his mouth. The beer got all over his face and drenched his dark tee shirt down to his chest, but he didn't care. He let the bottle fall and he kicked it midair. Wiping the beer off his nose, Peter soaked in the destructive and stank air in the factory, momentarily gazing at the streams of moonlight from the broken windows before going off on war rafts with the others.


End file.
